It was present all the the time. In the untaken phone calls and messages left without the answer. In a wind that was blowing through my hair in Citadel. In a view to white tenants, one next to another. In the labirynth of the streets. In stray cats roaming all over the city. In an unexpected peace I found in myself. In a cafe, where for one hour I was listening to a phone conversation of a Polish guy, who supposedly didn’t expect to have a Polish-speaker as his cafe-neighbour. In the spaces of Forum Romanum, in a lack of a single living creature in Odeon and in Nymphoeum, hidden behind the closed gate. In delayed calls of a muezzin. In the striped mosque on the hill, which I was looking at from the cafe’s balcony. In the warmth of the sun and coldness of the shadow. In the taste of pomegranate mixed with a grilled halloumi cheese. In the silence of the evenings and noise of the streets during the days. In the Iranian tea with rosa water and cake with cardamon. In Darat al Funun. In (un)told stories and (un)spoken words. In constant climbing up and down the hills and evening walks through the streets. In the narrow stairs and trees planted in the middle of the pavement. In Rumi Cafe that would definitely be my place in Amman if Amman happened to be my place in the world. In the taste of halva with pistachios. In getting constantly lost and constantly found.

Emptiness.

For a long time Amman was an inexpressible destination of my bike trip. Istanbul was a story for everybody, the one I could share with everyone and I wasn’t afraid to talk about. The next chapter of that journey was supposed to be mine only. That’s how I have imagined it at least. I didn’t have any idea what was waiting for me here, but it was here where I wanted to reach. To the place, where I found enough courage to talk about this bike dream of mine out loud for the very first time. I wanted to sit at this very same rooftop at night and – looking at the green lights of the mosques – keep telling the story about how I made this dream come true. That I am here, that I did it.

This hasn’t happened.

Some stories need to grow in me and wait patiently to be outspoken. This story is one of them. When I woke up in the plane after it touched the ground and I saw the desert outside of the window, I understood that I am not the same girl on bike anymore. That I came here to say goodbye. To her and to her story that I am keeping inside of me. To close one chapter of my life and create the space for another, new, unknown one.